Today we had a full day for rest, writing, laundry, shopping for needed items, and art. For our morning writing session, I designed a writing class based on Tim O’Brien’s classic Vietnam novel, “The Things They Carried.” The object of the class was threefold: to learn how powerful objects can be in defining character, to create a braided piece, and to learn to write in layers.
I started class by reading the first few pages of O’Brien’s novel about a platoon of grunts in Vietnam and what they each carry—weapons, ammunition, love letters, rabbit’s feet, hope, distrust, flak jackets, belief in God, grenade launchers. O’Brien includes both the physical objects they carry and the less tangible ones, weaving them brilliantly.
I had instructed everyone before class, on our group WhatsApp channel, to bring their backpack, fanny pack, and everything they carry on the Camino into our writing room. Once we got there, I told them to lay every item out and to begin composing a list of all the things they carry, with little tag descriptions that made those lists idiosyncratic and personalized. Here’s the start of my list:
THE THINGS I CARRY (version 1):
“A green Gregory 36” backpack.
In the main pocket:
“A long sleeve sun-resistant hiking shirt.
“A sunhat from REI, the same one Brenda and Amy and Kendra wear.
“A black mysterioso kayaking shirt I’ve had for 25 years that makes me instantly warm when I put it on and is equally insulating when wet.
“A favorite blue silky REI long sleeve insulating shirt as a medium layer.
“A military-designed ultra-thin poncho I bought three years ago in Switzerland, expressly for this trip.
“An extra pair of wool hiking socks so I can switch them out midday.
“A Nomadix multipurpose camping towel, “The Only Towel You Need,” which doubles as a blanket, a towel, a sit-upon, and picnic blanket.
“2.5 liters of water in a bladder with its top carefully zipped up, shoved into its designated pocket.
“A spare battery for recharging my iPhone and the requisite cable.
“A plastic kitchen garbage bag to keep it all dry.
In the outside pockets:
“A clean bandana for sweat and snot.
“A pair of collapsible hiking poles with rubber tips, folded in three, wedged in the side pocket.
“A 12-ounce metal water bottle for pouring water over my head on a hot day.
“A tube of HikeGoo to lubricate my feet before I put my socks on to prevent blisters.
“A merino wool buff to pull over my neck, ears, and head should conditions get chilly. This might just be my favorite Camino accessory.
“A knitted headband to keep my ears warm.
“A very thin turquoise windbreaker that folds up into its own pocket.
“A waterproof backpack cover that came with the backpack.
“Thin gloves to protect my hands from chafing on hiking poles.
In the top pocket:
“An orange pilfered from the breakfast buffet.
“A detailed itinerary of every day of our trip prepared for me as a trip leader.
“A beautiful art kit prepared by Brenda including my Camino journal, paint set, watercolor brush, various pens and pencils, a small ruler and various other art supplies.
“A baseball cap.
On the outside of my pack:
“Four striped diaper pins serving as an impromptu clothesline for my damp hiking socks, still wet from being hand-washed the night before.
“A brightly patterned Piss Off silver-infused pee cloth for women, folded and snapped in a tidy triangle, hanging from a loop in my backpack.
“Two clamshells tied with a red ribbon, symbol of being a pilgrim on the Camino.
“A yellow Camino arrow pin with a rainbow flag background that I bought yesterday from a man on the trail who sold it to me for 3 euros.
And so on…
We shared our lists in small groups and then discussed as a group what our lists said about us. I mentioned how we’d all been given the same packing list but were clearly carrying different items. We talked about how some people like to be prepared for anything and others are minimalists. How some of our packs were large and others relatively tiny. How some don’t mind carrying weight and others would rather do without than be burdened with a heavier pack. How some of us have well-organized packs, and know where every item is, while others must pull everything out in order to find the one thing they’re looking for. I emphasized that there wasn’t any right or wrong in these personal preferences. But that the fact that they were OUR habits is what mattered in this exercise.
The point of this writing class was to notice what the objects we surround ourselves with reveal about our character. And how powerful those details can be in a story. You can learn so much about a person by their choice of things.
In the second half of the class, I talked about the “things we carry” in life that are not physical objects, but rather, pieces of our history, ancestral trauma, responses to injuries, illness and good luck, moments of joy, childhood memories, past experiences, lessons we’ve learned, loved ones dead and alive: all the intangible things we carry that shape who we are or who we’ve become.
I asked them to write a piece describing these more intangible things they carry.
Once again, I read them a long example I’d written as a model of what I wanted them to do. Here’s how that piece began:
THE THINGS I CARRY (version 2)
“I carry my twin sister’s beating heart, the heart that only beat when we were one, when we swam in the wet and watery world inside our mother, the heart that was softer, gentler, the heart I urged to stay, the heart that could not stay.
“I carry my grandfather’s hand reaching under the covers to the story about the skunk and a railroad car. I carry the lifesaver, white from a blue pack that he placed on my tongue when he was done.
“I carry my father’s humming tunes, the ones he didn’t even know he was humming, the smell of his body mixed with the oil paints and tempera paints and wood chips and ink of making art with dad in the basement.
“I carry my brother’s stories, Frinkman the superhero emerging from a garbage can to travel to ancient Egypt and Greece, Macedonia and outer space, my brother’s words weaving a web of magic, but only in the car, only outside of New Jersey and New York City.
“I carry my mother’s expectations, the fierce weight of her love, the sound of her voice in the bed in the hospital in the emergency room the week before she died, that sound of bone scraping bone, raw from the marrow of her hip bones, “when will it be over?” I carry the lullabies I sang to her then, songs she’d sung to me when I was a small, songs I’d sung to my children and my grandchildren and now into her ancient, demented ears.
“I carry with me the desire for a special kind of love, a desire I have carried since the moment I came into this world alone, those weeks I spent in that glass box, untouched except for the tube down my nose, knowing that the one person who could ever really know me and see me and love me was gone, my identical twin whose body that had been wrapped to mine.
“I carry with me the drive to create a different future time and time and time again.
“I carry the sound of the train whistle my father made when he made sausage fingers, placing his fingers together, intertwined with no air or spaces in between and blowing into the air cavity inside while making a whoo-whoo sound at the same time and there it was, the perfect train whistle, I could smell the diesel and see the smoke when he made that sound and I snuggled closer into his arms.
“I carry with me the thousands of stories that were read to me, the thousands of songs that were sung to me, the thousands of nights I was tucked in with love, the meals that were cooked for me, the food that was always there, the encouragement for me to think and read and write and be, the awareness of the world and its unfairness, but never once the acknowledgement that is was okay to feel.
“I carry with me the driving force of my life to communicate, to speak, to write, to teach, to transform, to inspire, to shock, to influence, to impact, to reach out with words in every form, always going for the heart, the mind, the deepest places I could not yet reach inside myself.
“I carry the words of every student I have ever taught, the rhythm, the cadence, the open hearts, the cracked open battlements, stories pouring out of unexpected places, stories revealing truth in all its myriad permutations.
“I carry shame. I carry fear. I carry joy. I carry lots of worry. I carry momentum, fed to me with my mother’s milk and my oatmeal every morning: do, do, do, this is the way of human life. And I carry my resistance to that lesson. I carry dear friends who love me. I carry a home and the blessings of health and a good constitution. I carry white skin privilege. I carry the ancient history of being a Jew.
“I carry the memory of pushing human beings out of my body and of my more open heart, cracked open by their presence, their need, and their love. I carry the memory of meeting them at airports and dropping them off at airports, saying goodbye with a sinking heart, an empty heart, a full heart….”
And it continued.
After I read, I sent my students off in silence to write their own version of the things they carry, those that have nothing to do with what’s stowed in their backpacks.
After sharing this second round of pieces in small groups, we got back together as a big group and talked about how it felt to write those pieces, and any takeaways from the assignment.
Before breaking for lunch, I gave the group the final step in the exercise as a homework assignment: To take the first piece of writing and weave it into the second, to join them together in one braided piece. To alternate the two lists: the one about objects and the one about “life.” I told them they could do it chronologically, randomly, using the sentences as they first poured out. Or, if they were wanted, they could take the time to rewrite and edit the two strands together.
Once again, I read an example from my own work to give them a sense of what this braiding might sound like. Here’s the start of that piece:
The Things I Carry (Version 3: combined)
“On the Camino, I carry a green Gregory 36” backpack. A long sleeve sun-resistant hiking shirt. A sunhat from REI. A black mysterioso kayaking shirt I’ve had for 25 years that makes me instantly warm when I put it on and is equally insulating when wet. A favorite silky blue long sleeve shirt as a medium layer.
“I carry my twin sister’s beating heart, the heart that only beat when we were one, when we swam in the wet and watery world inside our mother, the heart that was softer, gentler, the heart I urged to stay, the heart that could not stay.
“I carry my grandfather’s hand reaching under the covers to the story about the skunk and a railroad car. I carry the lifesaver, white from a blue pack that he placed on my tongue when he was done.
“In the outside pockets: I carry a clean bandana for sweat. A pair of collapsible hiking poles with rubber tips, folded in three, wedged in the side pocket. A small water bottle with water and half a packet of electolytes. A 12-ounce metal water bottle for pouring water over my head on a hot day. A tube of HikeGoo to lubricate my feet before I put my socks on to prevent blisters.
“I carry my father’s humming tunes, the ones he didn’t even know he was humming, the smell of his body mixed with the oil paints and tempera paints and wood chips and ink of making art with dad in the basement.
“In the top pocket, I carry a detailed itinerary of every day prepared for me as a trip leader. A beautiful art kit prepared by Brenda including my Camino journal, paint set, watercolor brush, various pens and pencils, a small ruler and various other art supplies.
“I carry my brother’s stories, Frinkman the superhero emerging from a garbage can to travel to ancient Egypt and Greece, Macedonia and outer space, my brother’s words weaving a web of magic, but only in the car, only outside of New Jersey and New York City.
“I carry my mother’s expectations, the fierce weight of her love, the sound of her voice in the bed in the hospital in the emergency room, that sound of bone scraping on bone, raw and from the marrow of her hip bones, when will it be over? I carry the lullabies I sang to her then, my voice right into her pocket talker, songs she’d sung to me when I was a small, songs I’d sung to my children and my grandchildren and now into her ancient, demented ears.
“On the outside of my pack, I four striped diaper pins serving as an impromptu clothesline for my damp hiking socks, still wet from being hand-washed the night before. A brightly patterned Piss Off silver-infused pee cloth for women, folded and snapped in a tidy triangle, hanging from a loop in my backpack. And two clamshells tied with a red ribbon, symbol of being a pilgrim on the Camino, one from last year and one for this year.
“I carry with me the desire for love, a desire I have carried since the moment I came into this world alone, those weeks I spent in that glass box, untouched except for the tube down my nose, knowing that the one person who could ever really know me and see me and love me was gone, the identical twin whose body that had been wrapped to mine.”
And so on…
Now, they have a couple of days to work on these pieces and when we have our next non-walking “creativity” day, we’ll circle up and see what they came up with.
It was a great class. I love teaching writing on the Camino—even though the classes are far less frequent than a “normal” writing retreat, our sessions still weave the group into a deeper, more intimate connection. Buen Camino!
PS Here are pictures of some of the things we carry.
And here we are carrying them!